


Tangled Up.

by JiM



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Episode Related, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-10-25
Updated: 2001-10-25
Packaged: 2018-11-10 07:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11122326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiM/pseuds/JiM
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	Tangled Up.

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
Tangled Up.

## Tangled Up.

by anonymous co

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Aren't mine, don't own 'em, thought they were cute and might like   
to have some fun. Besides, talk about subtext. This is JiM's fault, and Bone's. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Author's Notes: 

Story Notes: 

This story is a sequel to: Home is Where the Mountie Is 

* * *

  * Tangled Up....*** 



Tangled Up..... 

Honeymoon period is over, but I'm not complaining. Just makes it real, I guess, and it's business as usual at the station anyway, when Fraser's there. 

Frannie's still pushing up into his personal space and making hints, and Fraser still blushes and cracks his neck and tugs at his collar, but you know, I may want to smack Frannie now and then for embarrassing him, but mostly I'm okay with it. 

Today, though, she's working my nerves bad, and I keep telling myself it's this case, it's making me crazy, really crazy, and it's redball time, we're all sweating over it, it's a nasty one. 

I hate the cases with kids. Doesn't matter how old they are, and the latest vic was seventeen, there's something so goddamn wrong about kids dying, and it's really making me nuts. All cops hate the cases with kids, it's a given, even if they don't have any of their own, and the only one calm here after the fifth vic is Fraser. 

Not because he doesn't care. I know that, but his calm is working my nerves, too, but not as bad as Frannie getting Fraser's personal space. "Give it a rest," I snarl at her and take hold of his arm. "Come on, Fraser, we gotta figure out what connects these kids." 

Frannie gives me one of those looks and says, real icy, "That's just what Fraser's done, Ray. Way to do your job." 

Fraser's bright red now, and he clears his throat. "It just occurred to me, Ray, that we hadn't checked to see if any of the children had experienced involvement in the legal system." 

So I snarl at him. "Fraser, the third vic was only six. What kind involvement in the legal system-" 

"So-shul services," Frannie sings and sashays off. I almost start after her, I'm that edgy, but Fraser grabs my arm and swings me toward my desk. 

"All of the children had been referred to social services," Fraser tells me. 

I sit down at my desk and try and resist the urge to slam my head on it. I put my elbows on the desk instead, and rest my face in my hands. 

I hate this case. I want the mother bad, I do, so bad I can taste it. I slept in a holding cell last night, didn't even go home. Fraser sort of snuck me in some clean clothes, since I'd been wearing what I had on for almost two days already. 

He also brought me good coffee, and some breakfast. Honeymoon may be over, but I love this guy. 

Mort says the kids didn't suffer, overdose of morphine. They just went to sleep, no pain at all. Doesn't help, not when you find a four year old with his tongue and eyes removed. Forensics isn't a lot of help, the bodies are pretty damn clean, like they were washed. Wrapped up like mummies in brand new white sheets that still have the creases from the packaging. 

Social services. "Child abuse reports?" I ask Fraser through my fingers. 

"Yes, Ray. Sexual abuse, to be precise." 

I spread my fingers and look at him. "All of them?" 

He nods, and his expression is grim. "However, the investigations proved inconclusive in all cases." 

I sigh. Drop my hands. "Good thinkin', Fraser." Tiredly. "Okay, so where do we start?" I'm so tired, I don't even want to argue with him. 

"I think we should speak to the social worker, Ray." He's eyeing me, his expression worried. "Jerry Winthrop. Did you get any sleep at all?" 

I get up, grab my jacket. "Yeah,I did a little. Pitter patter, Fraser." 

He nods and follows me out to the car. "In each case, apparently, it was a third party who made the report to Social Services. In two cases, a teacher, in one case, Merrilee Jackson's, a guidance counselor, and in one case, child care personnel." 

"So it wasn't the kids." Which makes my head ache, because I honest to God can't figure out why somebody would go around killing kids anyway, and trying to figure this sick fuck out is near fucking impossible. Welsh is making noises about the FBI profilers and I'm about ready to go in and beg him on my knees to do it before another kid dies. 

"Evidently not." He goes silent, staring out the window as we cut across this side of town to the Social Services bureaucracy, and when we get there, he has this weird distant look in his eyes. 

Well, not so weird to me, it means those Fraser wheels are spinning. Good, because right now, my wheels are just about frozen in place. Had a buddy had an engine do that, that's how my brain feels. 

So, we go up and this Jerry Winthrop isn't a he. She's a tall woman, drop dead good looking, and if I weren't already locked down, I'd be doing my thing. Even so, I give her an appreciative look and she gives me one of those down her nose looks I used to get from Stella. So, fine, whatever, we sit down and talk to her about the kids and the investigations on each, and she hasn't made the connection between the dead kids in the paper and the kids in her files. 

"We'd very much appreciate seeing your files, Ms. Winthrop," Fraser says seriously. 

"I'm not sure I can give them to you," she says, but she's a lot warmer to Fraser. 

That's about the end of my patience. "You know we'll get a warrant," I tell her, not even trying to be polite. 

She gives me one of those looks again. "Then I suggest you do so. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to give them to you without that warrant." 

"It might very well save another child," Fraser tells her, still very polite. "We can't be sure, Ms. Winthrop, but the evidence is suggestive." 

She stands up. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. I can't help you without that warrant." 

I wait until we get outside the building to explode. "This is why kids get beaten to death, this is why kids keep going back to the same people who hurt them, Fraser!" 

He's frowning a little and staring off into the distance. That just makes me crazier. "And it wouldn't surprise me at all if she fucked up those investigations!" I punch the doorframe of the GTO just to relieve my feelings, and my wrist is suddenly grabbed hard. 

I whirl, and I swear, my fist in clenched and then I rock back on my heels and catch my breath. Did I just get ready to punch Fraser? Did I? Oh, fuck, things are out of control, I can't believe I nearly punched Fraser. 

Fraser grabs my shoulders. "Ray? Ray?" 

I'm sort of swaying, and I feel numb, shocked. "'m sorry," I say, practically stammering. 

"Ray, give me your keys, you're white as chalk." He really looks worried now. 

I let him have them, sink down with my back against the car door, put my face in my hands. I'm shaking, that's how bad off I am right now, shaking like a fucking leaf, and I can't look at him. 

"Ray, you wouldn't have hit me." He crouches in front of me. "Ray, you were upset, you weren't berserk." 

I can't stop shaking. He puts his hands on my shoulders, rubs them gently. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray, are you listening to me?" 

My throat hurts and my eyes are burning, and I nod at him, raise my head. "Let's get back and get that warrant." 

"Ray." He squeezes my shoulders. "Not only would you not have hit me, I wouldn't have let you hit me." Faint smile. 

"Hope to God not." My voice sounds rusty, but I reach up and touch his hands for a minute. "Okay, let's go." 

Fraser nods, gives me a hand up, and I go around to the passenger side. Get in and slump back in the seat, and he gets in on the driver's side. My hands are still shaking. 

He reaches out and takes one, holds it for just a minute. "Ray." Gently. 

I manage a shaky smile. "'m good." 

He squeezes my fingers, lets go and starts the car. I lean back and close my eyes. I can't stop thinking about Jerry Winthrop, and not in a good way. My gut is sending me messages and maybe that's what set me off. "Fraser, when we get those files, I wanna track back on those investigations myself." 

"I agree, Ray." He sounds pretty somber again. "I think we should have a look at all of Ms. Winthrop's cases, actually." 

"There's definitely something hinky about her." 

"I agree." He glances at me, and I manage to pull up a smile from somewhere. 

"We still got it," I tell him, and reach out. Three nights, and we haven't touched except in the small stray pats we give each other anyway, and I put my hand on his thigh, feeling the muscle underneath those goofy pants. He looks hot in them. I looked like a goof. "We're a duet." 

He puts his hand over mine for just a minute. "We are indeed, Ray." Comfortable voice. 

That let me calm down enough that I'm not shaking any more. Sometimes, I trust him more than I trust myself. If he really doesn't think I would have hit him, I can go with that. Hell, I know I'm not firing quite on all cylinders. I want that warrant, and then we get the files, and then I'm going to try and get a few hours of sleep, I decide. 

Sure enough, when I get done explaining to the Lieutenant, he says to go home and catch some shut-eye, he'll take care of the warrant, send a team over. I really don't want to do that, and I start to argue with him. 

He shuts his office door and looks at Fraser. "Sergeant, take him home and keep him there." Looking straight at Fraser. Just looking at him. 

I nearly bite the tip of my tongue off closing my mouth. We all three stand there for a minute, and I can tell I'm the color of Fraser's tunic, and Fraser isn't. Which is weird. 

"Understood, sir." Fraser's voice is calm. 

Welsh looks at him a minute more, and then nods, like he's satisfied, turns to me. "Go home." Flat tone. "I need you rested and functioning, Kowalski. You got a good lead, the two of you. Nobody's going to shut you out of this, but it's going to take time to go through these files. I don't want to see you for at least six hours." 

I open my mouth to complain, shut it again without saying anything. Nod and go out the door. Not shaking, exactly, but still feeling hot. And relieved, go figure. Welsh has it figured out and obviously doesn't give a shit. Didn't change his opinion of me, I guess, it looks like he figured it out a while back, at least the way he looked at Fraser. 

Once we're in the parking lot, I look at Fraser. "Did you know?" 

He rubs his eyebrow, gets into the driver's seat. "I, ah, suspected that Lieutenant Welsh had put the puzzle pieces together, yes." 

Figures. I didn't have a clue on that one. "And you didn't tell me?" 

"Well, I didn't know, Ray. And it would have been premature to raise the issue without some evidence that I was right." He looks at me, worried again. "I thought it might worry you, and I had only a hunch to go on." 

I sigh and sink back in the passenger seat. "We're tangled up together, Fraser." Okay, now I know I'm tired, I'm not even making sense. 

"Yes, I dare say we are." He starts the car, and I close my eyes. 

Reach out blindly and grab the edge of his tunic between my thumb and fingers. So tangled up that he's getting my hunches, and I'm starting to get his logic. Crazy. 

But good. 

I don't think we've gone more than a couple of blocks and I'm gone, zoned, totally zee'd out. He has to wake me up when we get home, and I make it to the bedroom and fall face down on the bed, which he made, naturally. 

He gets my boots off, and my jeans, and I'm so damn whipped I let him and the only thing I do is pull my legs out of the jeans one at a time. He gets me under the sheet and leans down to kiss the spot right under my ear before leaving the room. I'm mostly asleep before he's all the way out&. 

I wake up from a nightmare of dead kids and Fraser is lying next to me, sound asleep, and it's just getting grey in the room from sunrise. I look at the clock and fuck, I slept about fourteen hours. Fraser stirs in bed, rolls over and wraps his arms around me, muttering something I can't make out. 

So instead of getting out of bed and storming around like an asshole, I take in a deep breath and relax into that. Close my eyes again and let myself feel his warmth up against my back. Mmmm, yeah, warmth, and more than that, I can feel his cock, about half-awake already from being up against _my_ warmth. So I roll over in his arms and reach inside the shorts he's wearing and he wakes up with a kinda of startled sound. 

I kiss him anyway, and oh, yeah, this is nice, this is good, and I lick my way out of a deep kiss and lick his ear. 

He makes this hungry sound in his throat and I'm licking it at the same time, and I can feel it vibrate just a little under my tongue, and even though I jumped him while he was asleep, he's the one getting rid of my shorts and his shorts and my t-shirt and then we're skin to skin, and that's even better. I can drown my nightmare in this reality. He reaches down between us, and I do, and I fold my hand around his while he's gripping both of us together, and the pleasure washes away the last bits and pieces of the dream. I bite his shoulder, suck on the side of his neck, and it takes no time at all and I'm groaning and coming, and he slides his other arm under me and pulls me hard against him and comes a couple of strokes after that. 

Then it's just lazy kissing and he bites the edge of my jaw and says, "Good morning." 

Sounds like laughter under his voice, and I grin against his throat. "Morning." Then, "How come you let me sleep so long?" 

"I called Lieutenant Welsh, and there was evidently some delay over the warrant, and none of the other detectives had anything new, and he said, and I quote 'if you wake him up and he comes in here, I'll shoot him myself'." Reasonable Fraser voice. "As I've grown rather attached to your presence, I thought sleep was the better option." 

I have to laugh, even though sometimes Welsh pisses me off when he does that. "Fair enough." Besides, I have to admit, I feel a helluva a lot better than I did yesterday. My head feels clearer, like maybe my brain isn't locked in place after all. "Shower?" 

"An excellent idea." He uses my shorts to mop us up a little anyway. "You get the water started, I'll put the coffee on." 

One-two punch, that's us. I watch him roll out of bed, just admiring the scenery and then get my own ass up and into the bathroom. Dief pokes his nose in and gives me a look, but wanders back out. It reminds me that Dief wasn't with us when we went over to brace the Winthrop woman, and I wander back out to meet Fraser. "Hey, where was Dief yesterday?" 

"I left him at the Consulate. In spite of Dief's depredations, Constable Munro is rather fond of him, and I thought in view of the activity at the station &" He grabs me, kisses me, and turns me back toward the bathroom. 

Depredations. I ask you, how many people come up with a word like depredations at 5:30 am? I snicker and get into the shower. Pure luxury, getting my back washed and my hair washed and I return the favor, just plain damn happy for the first time since they found Patrick Gleason in the park wrapped in a sheet. 

So it's the morning routine, only about three hours earlier than usual, and when we get to the station, there's people trickling in. Looks like Welsh sent everyone home for rest and downtime, because the atmosphere is a lot less wound up, like I wasn't the only one needed a fallback, and instead of snarling at each other, we're all acting like reasonable human beings 

Welsh comes in looking a little fresher himself and looks around the room, holds up a piece of paper. "Got it. Kowalski, you, Fraser, Dewey and Huey get your asses over to Social Services and get those files." 

So we leave Dief keeping Frannie company and go over. On the way, Huey tells me that Welsh ran a background check on Winthrop, didn't get much. "Squeaky clean," he tells me, "Nice background, back east, Ivy League school, rich family." 

"Could be coincidence that it's just her kids getting whacked," Dewey says. 

Mr. Sensitive. "Could be," I agree, but I still think there's something hinky about Winthrop, and it's not just because she gave me the cold shoulder. Gut feeling. Serious gut feeling. 

"Strange thing is," Huey says, "You might be dead on about those investigations. Talked to Merrilee Jackson's guidance counselor last night, and got some more details." 

Fraser turns around in the seat. "Yes?" 

"Girl was pregnant at thirteen, parents paid for an abortion. Quiet kid, good student up until then, and strict parents, didn't go to dances, didn't get out much. Talked to a couple of her friends last night, and both of them said Dad was weird, very weird, one girl said he was always hanging around with them, he gave her the creeps, she didn't like to stay over at Merrilee's, always had Merrilee come to her house. Between you and me, if I were investigating that, I'd have alarms going off." 

"Dad didn't kill her," I say and shake my head. "He might be a scumbag, but he didn't go out and hunt down those other kids." 

"He could have," Dewey says, just to be contrary. "Come on, Kowalski, we don't know that." 

I do. I glance at Fraser, and his expression is thoughtful. He's feeding the pieces into that computer brain of his, arranging them. But you know, it's okay, because we're on the same page. We're tangled up again, logic and hunches, and that almost makes me grin. 

Almost. 

Social Services director is pissed, totally pissed, and he stands over us making sure that we only get the files covered in the warrant. We load them into boxes-in a city like Chicago, there's one helluva lot of shit people do to their kids. Abandoning them, burning them, beating them, fucking them-it's enough to make you puke. 

We have to put the boxes in the trunk, head back to the station, and my mind is still picking at the Winthrop connection. "So, did Welsh get anything hinky on Winthrop's associates?" 

"Nada," Huey says and sighs. "All fine upstanding politicians." 

There's a minute of silence and then the three of us crack up. Fraser arches an eyebrow, but he's been in Chicago long enough that his mouth curves up anyway, even if he doesn't totally approve of cop cynics. 

Back at the station, we take the files to one of the interrogation rooms and spread them out. Start in chronological order, and pick out the sexual abuse investigations, and ta da, no surprises, there's a pattern, except that there are four kids in the middle of the sequence that throw things off a little. So, we each take a file and start backtracking those kids. 

I hang up the phone after making a few calls and look over at Fraser, who is still on the phone. 

"Ah, I see," he says, to whoever's on the other end. "Thank you very kindly." Hangs up. "According to the school, Jeremy transferred out when his parents moved to Indiana. The records were transferred to the Indianapolis school district." He's already reaching for the phonebook to get the area code. 

"California," I tell him, tapping my file. "San Diego." 

He looks over at Dewey, who shakes his head, and keeps talking. Huey hangs up his phone and comes over. "Parents moved, apparently. I called the grandparents, they have no idea where, say they haven't heard from them." 

I'm drumming my fingers on the file. "Call Indianapolis PD," I tell Fraser. "I'll get San Diego, see if I can track the kid down." 

Dewey hangs up, looks over at us. "Parents left town, left the kid with grandma and grandpa, kid ran away." Dry tone. 

I think about that. Dewey's kid was about fifteen, so it's not impossible. "They file with missing persons?" 

"Checking that now." 

I nod, pick up the phone, call San Diego. 

Bad bad news. Fraser's isn't any better. Dead kids in both places matching this mook's signature. 

San Diego gets interested, and so does Indianapolis, and Huey starts hunting his kid real serious, starts following the drill. 

Meantime, we're looking at the pieces and it's not shaping up to be any too pretty. Fuck. Well, we knew we had a serial, and about four o'clock that afternoon, we're sitting in front of Welsh with what we got. 

Which isn't enough. Dammit. 

But Frannie comes in with some printouts. "Geraldine Winthrop attended a seminar in San Diego in March," she tells us and hands the stuff to Welsh. 

I jump up out of my chair. "Bingo!" Grimly. 

Welsh holds a hand up. "That's not enough," he tells me, and yeah, I know he's right, but I don't sit back down. 

"It's enough to get surveillance, Lieutenant," I argue and he points at the chair, growls at me. 

So I sit. 

Upshot is that he does agree with the surveillance, and he gets hold of a judge, and we're going to alternate with Huey and Dewey, and the rest of the squad is going to keep following other leads with a couple side detailed to keep an eye on the kids who fall into the sequence after Merrilee Jackson. 

"I don't want to get so focused on this Winthrop broad that we lose sight of other possibilities, Kowalski," he tells me. 

That's cool. I know Welsh is following me on this, I know he's backing me, and that's even better, he still trusts my work, and even if Dewey isn't sure, I think Huey's got the beat, too. Thank God for Fraser. He made the connection, and while we're heading out for the first surveillance shift, I tell him so. 

He gives me a mild look. "I'm sure you would have made the connection, Ray. You're a good detective." 

"Eventually, yeah, maybe, but who knows what would have happened by then. Another dead kid on my conscience." That makes my gut knot up, just thinking about it. "You wanna change? We've got a little time." 

"Yes, I'd like that." That gets me a smile, and that warms me down to my toes. Eases some of the ache inside from this case. 

So we swing by the apartment, and we both change. If I'm going to sit in a car most of the night, I'm damn well wearing comfortable clothes. Pitstop in the bathroom, and then I head out to the kitchen. Fraser's already ready, zipping up his knapsack. I grab some cold cuts, slap some bread around them, and we munch on the way to Social Services. He does give the sandwich sort of a doubtful look at first, but neither one of us has taken time to eat lunch, even if he practically nailed me down to eat breakfast, and Dief certainly shows a lot of interest in it. 

It's still warm, even though it's September, and I roll the windows down, take off my jacket, and slump back in the seat. Fraser, being Fraser, brought some of his Consulate paperwork to do, and it's heading on toward six when Winthrop comes out of the building, looking really pissed and carrying a box of stuff. 

My ears practically come to a point at that. "What do you suppose?" I say, and wait until she pulls out and heads for the corner before I pull out after her. "Think she cleaned out her desk, or has she got files we didn't get?" 

He's frowning a little. "It might be instructive to find out." 

Oh, yeah. My gut is all wound up, this woman is dirty, but I'm not exactly sure how. Is she working with the perp? Is _she_ the perp? She's the social worker, the kids might trust her, might go with her without raising a fuss. 

I know the stats. Women aren't usually serials, that's something reserved for the male of species, usually. And when they are serials, it's poison, usually. I've done my homework over the years. Most women who kill, it's something like stressors, kids, husband, violence at home, but I also know we're seeing more and more women going down for crimes used to be almost always committed by men. 

I whip out my cellphone, call and leave a message for Welsh. Winthrop heads for home, and I stay far enough behind her that she hopefully won't notice a black GTO. It's sunset, now, and she's driving east, so that's another good thing. Harder to see in the rearview mirror, I think, and take it slow when we get to her neighborhood. Townhouses, mostly, older and renovated and Yuppified. Easy to find a spot to keep an eye on her address, and now we just have to wait. 

"She's dirty," I tell Fraser and drum on the steering wheel. "I know it, right here." Tap my chest. 

"We have to get evidence, Ray." Cautioning me. 

I know he's right. But I look at him. "What do _you_ think." 

"I think that what little we have-I think it's likely that she's involved in some way in the murders." He sighs. "But that, I'm afraid, is merely a hunch." 

I nod, thinking of dead kids. "We're gonna find the evidence. We're gonna bring her down." Grimly. 

Four years old, all wrapped up in that sheet. That's the one I dream about. That's the one I dreamed about this morning. That's the one I caught three days ago. 

It makes me crazy, it does. I know, we're supposed to be like doctors, cops are, we're not supposed to personalize the vics, but nobody ever told me how not to do that when it's kids. 

Like I said, there isn't a cop alive doesn't hate the cases with kids. Even when we don't have any, we hate 'em. Times like this, I'm glad I don't, that's the truth. I'd be crazier than I am already. 

Fraser reaches in the knapsack he brought and hands me an apple and a bottle of water. "Here, Ray." 

I know he's trying to pull me back out of that pit in my mind. I grin at him. "Five Ps, huh." 

He gets out an apple for himself and grins back. "Proper preparation, Ray." Dief pokes his nose over the seat to check out the apple and whuffles in disappointment. 

I take a bite. "If you brought coffee, I'll marry ya." 

He chuckles and pulls out a thermos. "Be careful what you wish for, Ray." 

I laugh, reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist. "Okay, you're stuck with me, now." 

"What a tragedy," he tells me, but he's smiling one of those smiles again. 

"Only for you, Mountie," I tell him and wink. "It's my good luck." That gets another chuckle and we settle back to wait. 

Nothing happens for three or four hours, and we start playing a word association game. Mostly because I'm getting wound tighter and tighter, and I know he can see it. 

"Car," Fraser says, not exactly up to his usual. 

"Drive," says I. 

"Road." 

"Kill." 

He looks at me. "Kill?" 

I shrug. "Roadkill." 

Dief whines at that. Fraser snorts. "Broom." 

"Curling." 

That gets another snort. "Sister." 

"Whack." 

"What?" He sounds unnerved. 

"Sister Mary Damien, my fourth grade teacher, she used to whack us with the wooden cross she wore." I imitate a large enraged nun for a minute. 

"Good God," he says. "Chalk." 

"School." 

"Sofa." 

"Sex." 

"Sex?" He sounds like he's about to laugh. "Never mind. Closet." 

"Sex." 

"Ray." 

"Sex." 

"No, I wasn't attempting to get you to associate something with your own name, I was expressing doubt that the first thing you think of is sex when you hear the word closet." Dry tone. 

I shrug. "It is now. Every time I get horny at work, I think about dragging you off to that closet you and Vecchio used to haunt." 

"Oh, dear." He shakes his head. "I almost wish you hadn't told me that." 

"Gonna think of it now, too, huh?" I grin at him in the darkness. "Me, dropping to my knees and getting those pants unfastened, wrapping my lips around your-" 

"Ray!" 

"Stakeouts are boring, we gotta keep ourselves awake," I tell him. 

"I thought we weren't going to do this while working," he says, but he doesn't sound mad. 

I shrug. "Hey, I'm an animal." 

He puts his arm across the seat backs and ruffles the short hair at the back of my neck. "My animal, I suppose." 

I hum happily. "Yup. Kinda like Dief." 

"Not even close to Dief," he says and Dief growls. "Well, he's not, thank God. For one thing, his manners are better." Takes me a minute, but I realize he's talking to Dief. 

"Yeah," I tell Dief, "I never steal the baby Mountie's lunch, for one thing." 

"He doesn't have to any more," Fraser says, sounding disgusted. "Munro shares it with him." 

"Big softie." I look over my shoulder at Dief. "And I bet Dief takes advantage of it." 

"He has an entire routine worked out. I tell Munro he's putting it on, but Munro doesn't listen." 

A shadowy figure comes down the driveway carrying something. I sit up, put on my glasses. Yup, it's Winthrop, and what she's carrying is a big old trashbag, full from the looks of it. 

"Look what we got here," I mutter and slide down in the seat. 

"Trash," Fraser tells me drily. "If you'll notice, Ray, the trashcans are all out at the curb tonight, so it would follow that-" 

"I still wanna get a look at hers," I interrupt him. 

"I don't think the warrant covers the contents of Ms. Winthrop's trashcan," he tells me warningly. 

Good point. Boy, we _are_ rubbing off on each other. "Dief, how would you like to knock over that trashcan?" 

Dief sticks his nose between the seats and peers out at the darkness. 

"Ray!" Fraser sounds annoyed. "Don't encourage him." 

Winthrop stuffs the bag in and goes back into the darkness. I think about getting out and/or letting Dief out, but Fraser is scowling at me, I can see it in the dim glow of the streetlight. So I wait. 

Good thing, she comes back with another bag. Stuffs it in. Another bag, stuffs _it_ in and jams the top on the trashcan down. 

"I gotta see," I mutter, and turn the dome light off before I open the door. Dief jumps out before Fraser can grab him and I close the door. "Stay here," I tell Fraser and hand him my cell. "Call Welsh, see what he can do." 

He's already halfway out of the car, but he takes the cell anyway, and as I start across the street, I hear him muttering into it. 

Every damn yard on this street has a hedge, so I use that as cover to edge up on the trashcan. I point at the damn thing, and Dief gives me one of those looks like, Huh? 

He must be paying more attention to Fraser than I thought. I take hold of Dief's muzzle and tell him, "Dief, knock it over." 

Offended look, but when I let go of him, the damn dog hurls himself at the trashcan, it hits the street at whatever speed Dief is going and the lid pops off, spilling crap all over the street. 

Jackpot, I think, and head over, crouch like I'm trying to pick up what my dog knocked down, and what do I see but a couple of syringes. I straighten up and Fraser's only about a yard away. "Got her," I say softly, and then I hear a car engine. "Tell Welsh." 

"Ray," he starts to say, and then shakes his head, says something into the cell. I reach for my holster as a car accelerates down the driveway, and I have to fucking leap for my life as Winthrop's car comes barreling out of the drive, tuck and roll and I still end up landing on face on the sidewalk. Just in time to see Fraser roll over the hood of that bitch's car and land on the other side of the street, and I'm up, out in the middle of the street, and firing. 

I'm wearing my glasses, so I could swear I hit one of her tires, but at this point, she's not the first thing on my mind. 

"Ben!" I'm leaning over him and he makes this face. "Just lie still." 

He hands me the cell, which he managed to keep hold of. Beats me how he does it. I grab it, and fuck me, Welsh is still on the line. I babble something at him, Winthrop's license plate, the syringes, Fraser lying in the road, and he says to stay put, he's on his way, and say, hey, he's sending an ambulance. 

I hang up, stuff the damn cell in my pocket, and I'm shaking. My fucking fault, I think, and I lean over him again. "Ben, you okay?" 

"I think so," he says, but his teeth are gritted. "I do believe I've hurt my back again." 

I feel a flare of panic for a second. "Wiggle your toes." 

He gives me the Are-You-Unhinged look. "Ray, I can move my legs quite well, it's simply that my back hurts rather alarmingly. Here, give me a hand." 

We have a short argument about that, and thank God, the ambulance comes screaming down the street before he wins it, and he's probably right, but Jesus. 

Welsh pulls up while Fraser is arguing with the paramedics. "How is he?" 

"Probably fine," I tell him. "He's fighting the medics." 

Welsh looks over that way, nods. "You're probably right, then. Let's see this trash, Kowalski, and tell me again how the fuck you happened to see it." 

"Dief had to, uh, go, so I let him out and he knocked it over." God, I _have_ been working with Fraser too long, I feel guilty for lying. And worse when Welsh looks at me without saying anything. 

"Don't bullshit me, Kowalski, how'd you know it was hers?" 

He's going to skin me alive. And I deserve it. "We, uh, saw her bring her trashbags out earlier." 

Yeah, the look he gives me promises me I'm going to get seriously reamed later. He walks over to the trashcan, rolls it over with his foot. The number on it isn't Winthrop's address, but her next door neighbor's. My jaw drops. 

"Interesting," Welsh says thoughtfully. 

I think my ass just got saved. Sort of. As long as nobody asks me in court, we may get away with it. 

Maybe. 

Doesn't mean Welsh isn't going to rake me over the coals. 

Welsh's cell rings and he yanks it out of his pocket, barks his name. He listens then, nods grimly. "Keep on her." Hangs up. "Patrol car spotted her, Huey and Dewey were on their way over to spell you, they caught the call, caught up." 

I fidget. "I had a feeling," I tell Welsh lamely. 

"Next time you have a feeling, sit on it until you get me a good reason for a warrant. You better hope to hell that if there's evidence in here, Huey and Dewey catch her doing something more than spitting on the sidewalk, Kowalski." 

I nod, feeling kind of sick to my stomach. Dumb, I tell myself, worse than dumb. Way over the line. The Forensics guys show up, and I go over to where Fraser lost the argument with the paramedics. They've got him on a backboard now, and they're sliding that onto a stretcher. He doesn't look happy. 

"Hey," I say and sort of pat his hand. "How ya doing?" 

"This is ridiculous," he tells me grouchily. "I simply put my back out." 

"Well, you did sorta play bullfighter with a car," I tell him and swallow hard. 

"Bull leaper," he corrects me, and they roll him over to the ambulance. 

I find out where they're going and lean in, once they have him in there. "I'll meet you at the hospital." 

I see him nod, and the lump in my throat is huge. I stand there in the street feeling like shit, and Dief comes up and whines at me. "He'll be okay, Dief," I tell him. 

A hand falls on my shoulder. Welsh. I look at him, sort of waiting for it. "You're off the case, Kowalski." He says it gently. "You screwed up. I know, it's hard, especially with kids. You need to get some distance." 

He's right. He's right. I know he's right, and it still makes me feel like a major fuck up. Which I was. I know that, too. I nod. "Yeah." It's hard to talk. 

He lets his hand drop. "Interesting thing came up. Geraldine Winthrop showed up in the New York State database as the focus of a child welfare investigation about nineteen years ago. Thirteen years old." 

My heart does this somersault thing. "Sexual abuse?" 

"Incest allegations." He's not looking at me, he's watching the ambulance turn the corner. "Never would have thought to look at her if not for you and Fraser." 

So, he's telling me I did something right. I guess. Except that it was Fraser thought of checking social services, even if we both got the same vibe. I nod at him again. "I'm going to the hospital," I tell him. 

"Take a couple of days off, Kowalski. Get some distance." He looks at me again, and he's dead serious. 

"It's a redball, Lieutenant," I say half-heartedly. "You're gonna need somebody to cover the regular shit." 

"Two days, Kowalski. You got one night's sleep since you caught the Kelley kid. I see you before then, you're on suspension." 

My stomach does the same thing my heart did a minute ago. I nod, head for the car. Let Dief get in, and lean over the steering wheel, trying not to let myself feel sick for a minute. 

I fucked up. 

And now Fraser is on the way to the hospital. 

I start the car and head that way myself. 

By the time I get there, they've already gotten him upstairs for x-rays, so I wander up that way, flash my badge and tell them I'm looking for Benton Fraser. 

I have to wait for a while, and then they let him come out, and he's walking, even if he's walking slow and careful. They make him sit down in a wheelchair, and he sees me then. 

Brightens a little. "I'm fine, Ray." 

I nod, stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket. "Good. Great." Shift from foot to foot. 

He frowns at me. "Are _you_ all right?" 

"Yeah, I'm good." I crack my neck, walk along beside him while the orderly pushes him along. "Just feeling stupid." He gives me a sideways look, and I shrug. "I screwed up." 

"Ah." He doesn't say anything more. What can he say? He knows it, I know it, and it's a fact. 

We go back to the ER and he gets his clothes again, gets dressed while I sit and watch. "I'm off the case," I tell him. 

He looks at me. Finally nods and tucks his shirt in. Still moving careful. Sits down on the bed and rubs his back one-handed. 

The doc comes in again with the X-rays after a while, and frowns at Fraser. "Mr. Fraser-" 

"Sergeant," I snarl. "RCMP." 

The doc gives us a startled look. He looks about as young as the baby Mountie, honest to God, and maybe it's just that I feel old and tired and halfway to incompetent. 

He holds an X-ray up in the air and Fraser stands next to him to look at it. I'm so tired, but I'm worried now and I try just to sit still, and the doc is talking about vertebrae and spinal cord, and Fraser's looking a little pale all of a sudden. 

Hell, I'm feeling a little pale. "The bullet's shifted?" 

They both look at me. "So it would seem," Fraser says calmly. 

So I stand up and look at the X-ray with them, and trying to process that the doc is telling Fraser that this is not a completely Bad Thing or a completely Good Thing, but that it may also be possible to remove the damn thing now. 

The upshot is that Fraser thanks him kindly, accepts the muscle relaxants for the current pain in his back, and a list of orthopedic surgeons and off we go home. 

Dief is pretty damn glad to see Fraser when we get to the car, licking the side of Fraser's head enthusiastically, and Fraser ruffles him and says, "Yes, I'm fine, just a bit sore, and thank you for being concerned and take your tongue out of my ear, if you please." 

Which would usually make me laugh, but I just don't have it in me. So we go home and I get out the sports rub and make him lie down and rub about half the tube into the huge fucking bruises. 

I crash then, lying on my back next to him, and he gets up, the schmuck, and cleans up the scrapes on my face and lies back down next to me. "Ray," he says gently, "You made a mistake." 

"A bad one." 

"It could have been, yes. But it's human, Ray. It doesn't make you a bad policeman, it means you were-" He stops, thinks, smiles a little. "You were blindsided." 

I look at him. That's not a Fraser word. "Blindsided." 

"It's a difficult case, Ray." His fingers graze my cheek. "And you're a passionate man, you throw everything you have into these things." 

I'm not sure any of it makes me feel better, but he does, at least a little, so I haul my ass up and strip down to my skivvies and get back into bed with him. If I hadn't been hotdogging, he wouldn't have been in the middle of the road, I think, and I roll over on my side and put an arm around him. 

"That's good," he mutters, and gives me half a smile. 

"I want you to call one of those orthopedic guys tomorrow," I whisper. "Okay?" 

He has his head on the pillow and he's looking at me. "I will, Ray." Steady voice. 

"I'll go with you, if you want." I touch the scar with my fingertips. "I just want you all right, Ben." 

He closes his eyes for a minute. "I know." Shivers a little. "It's &.I'll call tomorrow, Ray. And I will get more than one opinion." 

"Good." I move in close, so that my forehead is touching his. "'m sorry, Ben. This wouldn't have happened tonight if I'd kept my fucking head." 

"Shhh." He touches my mouth. "I know, Ray. I know how hard it is." 

I wonder if he does, really. But it's enough that he understands, at least, what was driving me. The pill is making his eyelids heavy, and I kiss his mouth, real gentle, rub his back a little and he lets them close. "Love you," I whisper, and then I stay awake for a long time. 

Fraser's moving kind of careful again in the morning, and I make him breakfast and tea and browbeat him into calling in sick. He finally gives in, starts calling for the ortho appointment, and when they hear why, the first one works him in that afternoon. 

Since I'm on leave of some kind, I'm game for that, because there's no way I'm letting him go alone in case the doc tells him he's got to have that fucking bullet removed. 

You know, I don't have anything against Vecchio, not really, but right now I'm thinking he had his nerve giving me grief about my shooting when he shot Fraser. 

So, we spend the morning with me rubbing more sport rub into sore spots and him napping because he's taking the pills, which means that he's really feeling some pain, which makes me feel more like shit, only I'm not going to mope around because _I_ was a fucking idiot. He doesn't deserve that shit. 

So I do my best to spoil him until it's time to leave for the appointment. 

We have to wait a while, so I start reading a Cosmo and whispering questions to him from one of the quizzes. 

"Ray," he says, after the first question. "Ray, I don't think-" 

"No, listen, what do you do? Dump the guy? Smile sweetly and offer to make the other woman dinner?" I'm trying not to laugh, because he's trying not to laugh out loud. "Throw the other woman out of the apartment?" 

"I arrest her for molesting my partner," he mutters, but the look he gives me promises me that he's going to get even. 

"I think that probably falls under C," I tell him. "Oh, yeah, you're definitely going to fall into the possessive and passionate category." 

Fortunately, before I can go any further, the nurse calls his name. I look at him, he looks at me and nods just a little. So I follow him in, and the nurse gives me one look and leads the way. 

Then there's the wait for the doc, and then the doc comes in with the X-rays, and she's not sure she likes them. Dr. Maureen Donnelly, good Irish-Catholic redhead, a fortyish something with those little half-glasses, and she sends him to the next floor for more X-rays and an ultrasound scan thingie. 

Then we wait some more. 

When she comes back in, she's real serious, and my stomach knots up. "I think," she says, "that we need to consider removing this bullet. It has shifted, I'm afraid," and she lays out the old x-rays and the new and shows us the measurement. 

Fraser's a little pale, but he says, real calm, "It was my understanding that removing it was more dangerous than leaving it." 

She nods. "That was three years ago, and we've made some good progress in new techniques." She looks at him kindly. "If it were me, I admit, I'd have it removed. The way it's positioned, we can't be sure it won't put pressure on your spinal cord in the future. My best prediction is that it could wedge here," she taps the x-ray, "Which would conceivably cause only minor disability, and chronic pain. My worst-" She gives him another kind look. "I would recommend that you seek a second opinion, Sergeant Fraser." 

He nods, and I see a muscle in his jaw jump. "Thank you, Doctor." 

"How fast is it shifting?" I ask her. 

She looks up at me. "It's not an emergency. However, I wouldn't personally recommend delaying on this." 

"Second opinion, right," I say and look at Fraser. He narrows his eyes at me, but doesn't say anything. 

At least until we're outside. "Don't push," he snaps. 

I feel like I just got punched again. I stop dead on the sidewalk, take a deep breath. Okay, I know I'm worried, I know it's worse because I'm already freaked out about the case and how I fucked up, and how guilty I feel. 

I'm not going to blow out here in the middle of downtown Chicago. Another deep breath. "Okay." As even as I can say it. 

He doesn't even look back at me. 

So we get into the car and I sit there for a minute, feeling everything that's wrong and feeling kind of sick to my stomach. Minor disability. Chronic pain. 

"Ray," he says, kind of snarky, "Are you going to start the car?" 

I look at him. "So it's not any of my business, is that it?" Oh, shit, so much for not blowing. "I'm not allowed to even talk about it? Fine." And I start the car. 

Neither one of us says anything on the way home. I get into the apartment and I realize I can't stay there. I grab my gym bag and mutter something and take off, go to the gym and work out some of my frustration and general frenzy on a punching bag, get a little sparring in with a guy who outweighs me, and stop on my way home to pick up Chinese. 

Fraser's asleep on top of the bedcovers when I get in. I don't wake him up, put the food in the fridge to reheat because I'm not even close to being hungry. I do pop the seal on a bottle of Scotch that I have tucked back in the bottom cupboard and pour myself a drink. 

Look at it for a while, and then toss it back like it's medicine. It burns going down, and then I lean over the sink, wondering if I'm going to throw it back up. Didn't realize my gut was that knotted. 

Forgot I hadn't eaten since around noon and it's just past eight now. The Scotch stays down-Jesus, I'm getting to be a lightweight these days, too much clean living, I guess-and I finally realize that Dief is nosing around my legs a little anxiously. 

I slide down to the floor and put my arm over him. "Hey, Dief." A little blurrily. Scotch is going straight to my head. "What's up?" 

"What are you doing, Ray?" Fraser is standing in the bedroom doorway, I guess, at least that's what it sounds like. 

"Talkin' to Dief," I tell him, without getting up. Apartment isn't that big, he can hear me. 

He comes around the side of the counter and looks at me. He looks good, I have to say, even if I'm mad as hell at him. Rumpled and flushed and barefoot. "Ray," he says huskily. "I'm sorry. You have every right to be concerned." 

Jesus, I can't even stay mad at him. I get a lump in my throat, and sure, it's everything and the Scotch on top of it, but I put my face into Dief's shoulder to keep from busting out bawling like a kid. 

"Ray, please, I can't come down there." A little plaintive. 

I hug Dief again, get up. Don't quite look at Fraser. "Okay." 

He holds out his hand, and I take it, and then we're hugging, a little careful and awkward, because I don't want him hurting worse, even if I am still upset. "It's just not a pleasant prospect." 

"I know," I tell him, my voice kind of muffled in his shoulder. "I know it's not. It's fucking scary." 

"You can't imagine." It's a whisper. 

It's a shock to realize that he really is scared. Fraser's not fucking scared of anything-no, wait, that's not true. We used to both be scared of what we were feeling, I remember that, I don't have amnesia. He says I was the brave one, but I don't think that's right. I think we got each other through that. 

Maybe we can get each other through this, too. "I know I can't." I swallow hard. "But it's different this time, Ben. You-all that other shit is past, it's just sort of echoing because of what happened back then." 

He shivers, holds me closer. "I know." 

He's got all the pain of the world in his voice. 

I lift my head up, raise my hand to cup one side of his face. "I'm here, Ben. I'm not goin' anywhere. I'm not. No matter what you decide, no matter what happens, you got that?" 

His eyes close for a minute, and his throat works. He nods. 

But I'm not sure he believes me. So, I guess I'll just have to keep telling him. Until he does. "No matter what," I whisper and kiss his mouth. "Okay?" 

"Okay." Not smiling. Still holding on. 

"Hey, I told ya, you brought coffee, you're stuck with me." 

That at least gets the ghost of a grin. "That's right, I'd forgotten." 

"I brought some Chinese. I can nuke it." 

"Oh." He touches my eyebrow. "You, ah, did some sparring." 

I wince a little. "Yeah, took a few hits." 

"No helmet?" 

I grin. "Yeah, I did. Just zigged when I shoulda zagged. I'm good." I shrug. "Had some Scotch on an empty stomach, so I might be ziggin' some more, but if I eat I should be okay." 

He sighs. Kisses the corner of my mouth. "Chinese would be good. I think I'll go sit down." 

"Good idea." I let go of him slowly, lean in to steal another kiss. "I'll get the food." 

He moves slowly back to the couch. Makes me wince to watch it, and I put the teakettle on, too. Make him some of that tea he likes while the food is heating and I'm dishing it up. I take his plate in, go back to finish the tea, and bring the teapot and a mug in for him. 

"You're going to spoil me." Kind of hesitant smile. 

"That's my goal in life. To completely ruin all that Mountie self-denial." I grin at him. "Break down all those barriers. I'll have ya eating grapes from my fingers in no time." 

That gets a real smile, and a chuckle. "If I do have this surgery, it may come to that. At least for a while." The smile fades a little. "Hopefully only for a while." 

I pour the tea for him, hand him the mug. Look him in the eye. "I'm not gonna pressure you, Ben. I just wanna know that you're doing what's best for you." 

The smile comes back stronger. "Thank you, Ray." And he leans over, still careful, and kisses me again. 

Helps a lot. I'm scared myself, scared of something going wrong, scared of the bullet doing some damage to his spinal cord, scared of a lot of shit. But I know I can't make the decision for him. I know he's got to decide. And if he decides to go for the surgery, I'm going to be scared as hell until he's recovered. 

Until I know for sure he's going to be okay. 

Can't help that. That's the trouble with getting in so deep, getting so tangled up. You get scared of losing. 

So I don't think about it, and I make sure he eats something before he takes another pill, and then I take care of the dishes and then we go to bed. 

And I don't sleep for shit. 

* * *

End Tangled Up. by anonymous co:

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